


Be Covered by the New

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Cooking, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Scrabble, Snowed In, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: 'Stay here, dear. I didn't mean for either of us to go out in this.''Oh. Ok.' Crowley's voice does something that definitely isn't cracking. 'Yes, I'd like that. If you don't mind.'A heavy snowstorm, a day in the bookshop together, and conversations that have waited far too long. Also bickering over Scrabble.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 141





	Be Covered by the New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaydreamingofDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamingofDragons/gifts), [The Moony Mistress (moonymistress)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonymistress/gifts).



> A year ago today, I sat and scribbled a 900 word story for the first of Drawlight's Advent prompts. I hadn't written fic in years, and I didn't intend to finish those prompts. In the year since then, this fandom, the people and the art and fic in it have brought me more joy than I know how to say. I didn't expect to write snake drabbles, or kink, or poetry (posting next week) or for zines, or even just to keep coming back and writing more stories. Thank you all, a million times over. 
> 
> This fic is for my dearest DaydreamingofDragons, for all the good reasons, forever; for MoonyMistress for friendship and laughter (and the prompt for this fic), and for all the wonderful, dear people in this fandom, in gratitude.

'Do you think Adam did this?'

Crowley groans and pushes himself into a sitting postion before he opens his eyes. 'Whadya mean, angel?'

'It's snowing.'

'It's London. It does that sometimes.' 

Aziraphale makes a quiet little noise that isn't quite agreement and turns away from the window. 'It's snowing a lot.'

He stretches, rolling his arms and back, trying to wake up. He's got more used to sleeping here recently, but this bit, being half incoherent and entirely sleep stupid, in front of the angel is harder to accept. It's a weird mix of vulnerability and embarrassment; he wants Aziraphale to see him as he normally is, not with sleep ruffled hair and a brain that's not working yet. 

'Let's see.' He pads barefoot to the window and stands there, considering. 

London has vanished, as far as he can tell. 

The snow is a cloak, hiding everything past the edge of the pavement. There's the odd splinter of colour that might be a car with a very determined driver, or his snake eyes insisting on seeing movement when there isn't any beyond the relentless drift of the snow. The streetlights are amber glows, formless and shapeless shapes in the white. 

'Oh.'

'It's not been like this since the 60s,' Aziraphale says, coming to stand alongside him. 'And this wasn't forecast.'

Alongside him isn't quite the right word. Aziraphale's close enough that their arms are brushing together. 

'It feels normal,' Crowley says after a pause. 'Nothing demonic.'

'Doesn't feel Heavenly, either.'

The snow keeps falling as they stand there. The sky is gun-metal grey and the flakes are white and cream and ivory. He's used to snow storms being a threat but this doesn't feel like one. It just is. 

'Well, I dare say there won't be any customers today,' Aziraphale says a timeless period later. He sounds delighted at his realisation. 'Breakfast?'

'I don't think there's many places open.'

'Obviously. Stay here, dear. I didn't mean for either of us to go out in this.'

'Oh. Ok.' His voice does something that definitely isn't cracking. 'Yes, I'd like that. If you don't mind.'

'Why would I mind? Honestly, Crowley, you do have some ridiculous ideas.' 

'We aren't friends', and 'I think it's getting late and I've got to open the shop tomorrow,' and 'I don't even like you,' hang on his tongue for a moment. They've not discussed them; when have they ever discussed anything? But he's not going to be the one who brings it up; who damages whatever it is they've building for themselves in the handful of weeks since the world didn't end. 

It's the first time Aziraphale has ever asked him to stay. 

He glances once more at the snow and follows Aziraphale back towards the couch. His glasses are there, next to a mostly empty wine glass, the Bentley's keys and Aziraphale's book. All on the same table, and it's the most stupidly domestic thing he's ever seen. 

Aziraphale's moving around the kitchen while he's still debating about the glasses and he misses what the angel says the first time. 

'Do you want anything?'

'Whatever you're having,' don't be a nuisance, Crowley, don't make him do things for you, it's meant to be the other way round.

He picks the glasses up, fiddles with them. Puts them down again. They always come off a few hours into their shared evenings, so why bother?

But then that might look too casual. He's a guest here; this weird, snowed-in morning is different and he doesn't know what the rules will be. 

He slides the glasses on in case - it seems polite - and finds Aziraphale in the tiny kitchen, making crepes and coffee. 

'I didn't know you cooked.'

'Why would I go out to eat all the time? I like cooking.'

'You always come out for meals with me.' Crowley grabs the coffees, and turns to notice that Aziraphale's laid the table for two. The car-keys on the table are suddenly only the second most domestic thing he's ever seen. 

'Well, yes of course. I could hardly invite you back here for dinner, could I? And sometimes the food was very good. But I like cooking.'

Crowley doesn't really hear any of that past 'invite you back here for dinner.' It sounds so stupidly familiar, so like his own dreams that Aziraphale might want him around just for his company. 

They eat almost in silence. 

'Does the snow bother you?'

'Sorry?'

'The snow. I thought maybe the glare of it...' Aziraphale gestures towards his own face in explanation, and Crowley shakes his head. 

'Nah. It's fine. I just...didn't want,' and he can't think of a single way of ending that sentence that doesn't make him sound like an idiot. He goes to take the glasses off; Aziraphale reaches over and touches his arm and that's so different from anything the angel's ever done before that he freezes. 

'You don't have to take them off if it makes you uncomfortable, Crowley.'

Which is exactly why he's able to do so, leaving them folded on the table alongside his empty plate. 

He loves Aziraphale so much in that moment it hurts. He looks down and tries to focus on the food, not the snow and the hours stretching out ahead of them.

They've never spent a day together like this before. Not an empty day, with no assignments from Heaven or Hell, no outings planned or work to do in a garden and with a child. Just each other's company and the whispering of the weather and the creaking thoughts of the bookshop as it settled and groaned against the cold. He's not sure if he's excited or terrified. 

'What do you want to do?' 

The question throws him; he's the one who's always meant to find something for them to do. But deflection works on Hell so he tries it here. 'What would you like to do? What would you do if I wasn't here?'

There's a frozen moment when Aziraphale looks at him. When he wonders if the angel has ever properly made eye contact with him before without the glasses being in the way, because surely he'd remember Aziraphale gazing at him like that. 

'I used to wish you were around when you weren't. I'd miss you.'

There's no answer to that. Crowley looks away and stares at the books as though they've got an answer for him. 

'What about you?' Aziraphale asks. 

It's a meaningless sort of question. He's never had days where Hell couldn't get in contact with him if they wanted; force through whatever he was listening to or watching, sending vague threats and perfectly clear assignments. 'Dunno. Play around on my phone. Watch telly. Specially when it's cold like this.'

'Cold? You should have said.' 

There's a wheezing sort of noise from where the fireplace used to be, and an old fashioned gas heater is standing in place, glowing amongst the dullness of the shelves. 

Crowley bursts out laughing but stretches his hands out towards the heat just the same. It feels far warmer than it should do. Perhaps he'll try and explain about under-floor heating and insulation later, but it's not an open fire and for that absent minded kindness, he'll take any amount of old fashioned options. 

They end up on the couch; Crowley stammering and offering to move when Aziraphale comes and sits next to him ('It's alright, angel, you can sit here, I can move.' 'You'll do no such thing, Crowley, I set the TV up so we could see it from here.')

Amongst the shelves, there is indeed a TV. Crowley notices it's a copy of his one and wonders just how much Aziraphale took in over those few hours spent in his flat. 

He feels like it ought to be uncomfortable. Like something as long awaited as this should start with something more dramatic than Aziraphale settling next to him with a book, and saying softly 'well, find yourself something to watch, dearest. I'm not going anywhere.'

And they don't move, for a few hours. 

Except that Aziraphale seems to move closer to him every time Crowley looks down; except that there's the warmth of a body pushed alongside him, a shoulder brushing his. Aziraphale doesn't interrupt or distract but he finds he can't remember anything of what he's just watched. The words fade into unimportance as soon as he's heard them. 

Aziraphale is very nearly cuddling him. 

He can't decide if that's stranger than the snow, which is still falling as though it never intends to stop. It feels just as fragile, just as easy to destroy as the flakes landing on the window. 

If he mentions it, if he draws attention to it, Aziraphale might stop. Might think it's unwelcome, unwanted. 

He's always been a coward at heart. 

Crowley lets his eyes fall shut, pretending to be asleep. He's always promised himself that he won't lie to the angel but then, Aziraphale's never done this to him either. 

He does drift, eventually. The shop is too warm, too familiar, too safe, for anything else to happen. Not quite sleep but the place next to it, where everything feels like a dream anyway and he's barely aware of Aziraphale laying a blanket over him. Pausing and adjusting the blanket so it lies over them both. 

No demon should ever be able to feel this safe, he thinks. 

They stir again sometime after midday and Crowley is still a coward, the words still choking in his throat however much Aziraphale gives him the opportunity to say them. 

They end up playing Scrabble of all the ridiculous things, because Aziraphale says he's never had anyone to play with before and Crowley can't stand the hollow, pinched look on his face as he says that. 

They're not very good at it, mostly because they didn't think to establish a set language before starting. But Aziraphale laughs and Crowley loves it, and they spend a couple of hours bickering over what is and isn't a word before Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley's stand, accusing him of cheating again. 

Crowley's already holding it, so Aziraphale's hand wraps around his and stupidly, it's a line from Shakespeare that comes to mind "palm to palm is Holy palmers' kiss" which he's always thought was from the stupidest one of the lot and ... his brain finally kicks in to remind him Shakespeare might not be the best thing to think about when Aziraphale is finally, literally, holding his hand. 

'Angel?'

'I told you, you fiend, no Scrabble set has that many Ks in it.'

'You miracled the whole thing up! How do you know how many Ks it's meant to have?'

But Aziraphale's still holding his hand. In fact, he moves his fingers a bit so they wrap around Crowley's better and...he drops the letter rack, spilling that and the tiles across the card table, and Aziraphale still keeps hold of him. 

'Is this alright?'

'Yeah.' Crowley works his jaw a moment, trying to force the words out again. 'Yeah, that's very alright, angel.'

'Good, because,' Aziraphale's thumb rubs across the back of his knuckles, 'because I've wanted to do this for a very long while. Wanted to do it this morning. Wanted to do it weeks ago.'

Crowley fixes his gaze on the snow. Tries to focus the rest of his awareness on it, so he's not so aware of Aziraphale's skin against his. Both lost causes. 

Aziraphale's stroking across his wrist now. If he moves much more, he'll be able to feel how stupidly fast Crowley's pulse is racing. 

It's a heartbeat or two in comparison to all the rest of their long relationship. It's an eternity. 

He wants to ask what this means. If it matches up to his half formed fragments that have never been coherent enough to be described as a dream.

'Crowley?'

'Mmm?' 

'Be not afraid,' and Aziraphale is laughing, laughing aloud, head thrown back but it's not aimed at him at all, he can feel the waves of affection and - love. 

'That is a seriously bad chat up line,' and suddenly everything's OK, he can breathe again even though they're still holding hands. 

They go back to playing after that, although it means both of them shuffling around because he doesn't want to let go of Aziraphale, and they can see each other's tiles, so the game doesn't go much better than it was. 

It's almost dark when Crowley does finally look up; the snow has lessened but there's drifts across the road. He hadn't realised just how little traffic there's been for the past few hours; London must be at almost a total standstill. 

'Dearest,' and that name strikes with an almost physical weight. 'I...can I kiss you?'

There's so many other questions that Crowley had been expecting that the reality of that one doesn't sink in for a moment or two.

But his answer is simple; how could it ever be anything different?

'Of course.'

Neither of them are very good at it, and it's easily the best thing Crowley's ever done.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an Ella Wheeler Wilcox poem, A March Snow. 
> 
> 'Let the old life be covered by the new:  
> The old past life so full of sad mistakes'


End file.
